


Supernatural 328: The Series Finale!

by RogueTranslator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Comedy, F/M, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Metafiction, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 15, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: Weeks after the final confrontation between Chuck and the Winchesters, Amara happens upon a still-trapped Becky Rosen. Feeling an instant kinship with her, she promises Becky that she will have her revenge on her ex-boyfriend.The next week, Becky and Amara visit Chuck in his cage. Becky writes an ending to Supernatural that's more to her taste and forces Chuck to watch it with her. She also drops a frying pan on his head.
Relationships: Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester - Relationship, Implied Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester - Relationship, past Becky Rosen/Chuck Shurley - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme





	Supernatural 328: The Series Finale!

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Chuck failed to dispose of Becky permanently in 15x04. Despite her new commitment to healthy coping, she's pretty pissed, and decides a one time exception in regards to the stalker ex who attempted to kill her is self-care. Can be any rating and either sexual or nonsexual, as long as Becky gets her revenge and there are no negative consequences for her. 
> 
> Canon or AU? Canon  
> Bonus/Extra Things I'd Love to Have Included: If somehow the fact that she's a better writer than Chuck enters into it, that would be *chef's kiss*.  
> Squicks and Triggers: Gore, Body Horror, MCD  
> Do Not Want (DNW): Please don't have Becky disrespect any character or ship except Chuck.

Chuck looked up from his laptop. There was a blinding flash of light somewhere in the infinite darkness that surrounded his cage, and he peered through the bars to see it. Two figures approached: women, talking and laughing.

His sister and his erstwhile biggest fan.

Chuck sighed deeply. He’d already lost—humbled by the Winchesters and his traitorous son Castiel, locked up by Death and his own sister, supplanted by that brat with the nineties boyband hair. Being pestered by Becky Rosen on top of all that? Amara just wanted to rub his nose in it. He’d never been so cruel when she’d been the one locked up.

His self-pitying was interrupted by the rattling of the cosmic padlock on his door.

“I brought you a visitor,” Amara said.

“Becky,” Chuck said, without looking up from his typing. “Glad to see you’re alright.”

“No thanks to you.”

“What? That isn’t true. You didn’t think I’d leave you in limbo forever, did you? I always planned to bring you and your family back. I just couldn’t risk you blabbing our conversation to Sam and Dean.”

“He’s lying,” Amara said. “As usual.”

“I know. How’d you ever put up with him?”

Amara smiled archly. “How’d you?”

“With difficulty, believe me.”

“Oh, come on.” Chuck sat back in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap. “I know it didn’t work out between us, but we had some good times, didn’t we? Remember the hot dog eating contest on Coney Island? Or the panic room in Century City? The cats in Key West with too many toes—I know you had fun on that trip!"

“Somehow, the fact that you were pretending to be someone else the entire time we were dating takes the shine off.”

Chuck shrugged. “I’m a writer. Pretending to be other people—it’s kind of what I do.”

“Well, I’m a writer too. And I was always honest with you.”

“You write fanfiction, Becky. The kind that involves excessive moaning and copious bodily fluids. Comparing your fics to my stories…it’s like calling Olive Garden fine Tuscan cuisine.”

“Oh, really?” Becky darted forward and snatched up Chuck’s laptop. “Then get ready for unlimited breadsticks, Chuck, because I’m in the driver’s seat now.”

“Come again?” Chuck reached out to stop her, but Amara held him to his seat with a look. “Sis, what is this? Since when do you and Becky even know each other?”

Amara settled at the edge of Chuck’s desk. She watched with approval as Becky plopped down on the couch in the corner and began to type.

“You’d be amazed by how many people I’ve met in the last few weeks, over the course of cleaning up your mess. Angels, humans—a few ghosts and demons, even. None of them had anything good to say about you. Pretty sad, since you created all of them.”

“Eh.” Chuck waved his hand. “Everyone’s a critic. It’s easy, taking pot shots at someone else’s work. Especially now, with social media. That—next time around, I think I’ll deep six Facebook and Twitter before they really get going. No one has the attention span for a novel anymore. It’s a travesty.”

“I found Becky last week,” Amara said, ignoring him. “Trapped in a stasis pocket, somewhere between realities. I felt her heart call out to me, and I knew in an instant.”

“Knew what?”

Amara beamed at her. “Knew how she felt. You were close to her, used her, betrayed her. Locked her away. You never change. Her pain and anger reminded me so much of myself. I took her hand then and promised her that she’d get to confront you.”

“That’s sweet. You, Becky, and Billie? You just need to find one more for a sisterhood of the traveling pants.”

They were interrupted by a cackle from the corner. Becky threaded the stray strands of hair behind her ears again and returned her fingers to the keyboard.

“What’s going on over there?” Chuck said. “I hope you’re not editing my latest manuscript. I haven’t even finished the first draft yet.”

Becky snorted. “You think I’d still do unpaid work for you, after everything? No, I’m writing my own story. With all my favorite characters.” She glanced up. “With one exception. You make a brief cameo.”

“Um, that’s nice.” Chuck squinted at Amara. “This is her confronting me? This is her revenge?”

Amara picked up and inspected the pens on Chuck’s desk one by one. “It’s what she wanted. She hated the ending you wrote. She’s going to write the final chapter of _Supernatural_ on your computer, and we’ll make it real.”

“We?”

“The new God and I. Provided that there isn’t anything he disagrees with.”

Chuck scowled. “That teenybopper isn’t cut out to be God. No gravitas.”

“Change out of your bathrobe before you talk about gravitas, dear.”

“It’s not like I can go anywhere,” Chuck pouted. “Come on, I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t even want to be God anymore. Just let me out, and I’ll go live on my own planet until the end of the universe. All I want to do is write.”

Before Amara could reject his proposal, a cast-iron skillet fell from the ceiling of the cage and clanged into Chuck’s skull. The pain was incandescent, vision-blurring—the kind of pain that was impossible for him to feel, except at the hands of his sister.

“Ow!” Chuck wailed. He glared at the skillet, which had fallen to the floor beside Amara’s feet. “What’d you do that for?”

“Me?” She looked thoroughly amused. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Sorry,” Becky said, looking up. “Actually, I’m not. I was just testing to see whether what I type here actually happens. It’s kind of a power trip.”

“Inside these four walls, they’ll happen immediately. Anything on Earth—especially anything to do with the Winchesters—we’ll take the ending to Jack first.” Amara looked at Chuck and winced. “That’ll leave a bump.”

“I just hope it didn’t hit the part of my head that governs writing.”

Becky peered over the laptop’s screen. “You mean it’s possible to be a worse writer than you already are?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Not too long ago, you were my biggest fan!”

“Eh. You ruined everything in the home stretch. Even after my feedback, you still went with that dismal, bleak, faux-intellectual ending?” Becky tapped the enter key several times.

“That a scene break?” Chuck said, rubbing his bruise. “Point of view shift?”

She ignored him. She resumed typing. “I mean, really, Chuck? The ‘everyone dies but Dean, leaving him miserable and alone’ resolution? Talk about cliché. Talk about predictable. Not to mention a worse retread of _Swan Song_.”

“Jack’s alive. Oh, and he’s God. I think he did pretty well for himself.”

“But in your ending, he leaves for Heaven, and Dean assumes he’ll never see him again.” Becky shook her head. “Besides, he and Dean always had the most distant relationship in Team Free Will 2.0.”

“So, what? Everyone miraculously comes back to life, and they all do laundry together? Pack a picnic basket and go to the beach? Drive to Ikea and pick out curtains for the bunker’s nonexistent windows?”

Becky smiled. “You’ll see. Now shush. Writing requires focus, and you’re distracting me.”

* * *

The next day, after dropping off Becky at her front door, Amara traveled to Heaven with the manuscript for _Supernatural 328: The Series Finale!_ She found the new God in Heaven’s throne room. Despite his boundless light and glory, he stood awkwardly at the side of the throne, holding court over a gaggle of adoring angels. Michael watched from a respectful distance behind and to the left of him.

“Oh.” He blinked at the doorway. “Great-aunt Amara. Welcome!”

She smiled, trying to appear as benign as possible. The angels bowed respectfully, though she could tell they were unsettled by her presence.

“What a—” He paused, casting about for the right words.

She lifted her eyebrows.

“What a lovely surprise,” Jack said. He grinned, and all the angels seemed to hum their approval.

“You know, that may be the first time anyone’s ever said that about me.” Amara moved a few steps forward; the angels parted for her. “I need to speak with you. I think you’ll like the news I’ve brought.”

“I can wrap up things here,” Michael said. He nodded to Amara, brief but cordial. He’d always been the most grim and solemn of the archangels. As another older sibling, she felt a certain empathy.

“Okay. Thank you, uncle.”

Jack snapped his fingers. He and Amara were in the garden of Heaven now, under a grove of pomegranates. It was night; the moon reigned high. He approached her, and they walked along a path through the trees.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he said. “After we locked Chuck away….”

“What?”

“It just seemed like you might want some time to yourself. In spite of everything, he’s your brother.” Jack plucked a pomegranate from the boughs and split it open carefully. Still, errant seeds spilled onto the grass.

Amara snorted. “Please. I can see him anytime I want. An afternoon visit once a year or so is more than enough.”

“Huh. I assumed he was the reason you’re here.”

“He is, in a way. I happened upon a woman he’d wronged not too long ago. I told her she would have her vengeance. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Oh. Wait, what does that have to do with me?”

Amara held out her hand; with a flutter, Becky’s manuscript appeared in her upturned palm.

“Read it.”

He leafed through the pages, taking only a split-second.

“Do you see now why I’m here?”

“I’m not sure.” Jack frowned. “These are things that _will_ happen? _Could_ happen?”

“You’re God. Not only that, the Winchesters and Castiel are your family. It’s in your hands whether it happens or not. She’s even written that detail in.”

“I don’t see how this is possible.” They’d reached a clearing, and Jack paced in tight circles. “I already tried—I tried bringing them back. It was the first thing I did after the dust settled. It didn’t work.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Amara took his hand. He stopped pacing. “Together, our power is greater than all else in existence. We can break any rule, fulfill any wish.”

Jack swallowed. His hand trembled in Amara’s.

“Then I wish—I wish for my dad back.”

“Not yet,” Amara chided. “We have to do it as it’s written. I promised Becky.”

“Oh.” Jack grinned again. His teeth, stained red with pomegranate juice, sparkled in the moonlight. “Yeah, her way is cooler.”

* * *

“You’re back.” Chuck crossed his arms. “I was hoping I’d at least have a couple days of peace and quiet before seeing you two again.”

“Don’t worry,” Amara said. “This is the last time you’ll see either of us in quite a while.”

Chuck chewed his bottom lip. “What does that mean?”

Becky sat down at one end of the couch and picked up the remote control. “ _Supernatural 328: The Series Finale!_ is on TV this afternoon. We’re going to have a little viewing party.”

“Becky, I think some of the fumes from your glue gun have addled your brain. _Supernatural_ is a series of novels. Carver Edlund would never stoop to screenplay writing.”

“I was using figurative language. You know, that thing you never quite mastered? We’ll watch what’s going on with our favorite characters from the handy God TV here.”

“The one you wrote into existence the last time you visited.”

“The very same.” Becky stood up again. “Only a few minutes until it starts. I’m going to make some popcorn.”

* * *

Jack stood alone, invisible, in the parking lot of a bar in western Montana. It was just after midday; there were only a few cars waiting for their owners. One of them was a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

He checked what Becky had written one last time before approaching the bar’s front door. The façade was decorated with horseshoes, saddles, and lassoes. Jack smiled as he looked back at the deserted parking lot and silent road. He half-expected to see one of those tumbleweeds from the cartoons.

Inside, the vestibule opened into the bar through a pair of saloon doors. Jack pushed through, spotting Dean at the far end of the bar instantly. He was hunched over a cheap beer; his beard was unkempt, his hair matted with days-old sweat and oil.

The bartender stood up from where he’d been refilling stock behind the counter. “How you doing, boss? Everything alright? You’re here awfully early today.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged even further. “Just keep the drinks coming, Amos. Me being here’s not hurting anyone.”

With a sigh, the bartender popped open another bottle. He slid it into Dean’s waiting hands.

Jack sat on the stool beside Dean. He watched him for a few minutes, until Amos carried several empty crates into the back room. Then, Jack revealed himself.

“Dean.”

“Jesus—” Dean knocked over his beer; it spurted its contents onto the floor behind the bar. “Jack?”

Jack waved. “Hi.”

“Why are you here? Something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. The opposite, actually.”

“Oh, right.” Dean rolled his eyes. “How’s your plan to turn Earth into a lovely little lollipop world going? Little harder than you thought, I’m guessing?”

Jack shook his head. Dean was attempting to suck every last drop from the near-empty bottle.

“That’s not why I’m here. I have something to show you.”

“Look, whatever it is, I don’t care. I said I was out, and I meant it. I’ve done enough. Given enough. You and Michael can handle it.”

“But it isn’t—”

“And you owe me a beer. How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?”

Dean gestured to Amos as he returned from the back room.

“Already? You’ll pass out by dinnertime at this rate.”

Dean hiccupped. “Do I look like a lush to you?”

Amos and Jack exchanged a glance.

“Who’s your friend?” Amos said.

“Oh, him?” Dean chuckled. “He’s God.”

“Right. God.” Amos started mopping up the spilled beer. “I have a feeling I’ll be cutting you off earlier than usual today, Dean.”

“He is. The notorious G-O-D. You know, if he wanted to, Amos, he could snap his fingers and vanish you out of existence. Or turn you into a magenta tentacle monster. Or even put you and your brother through four decades of pain and loss and utter misery for his amusement, because that’s the sort of thing God does.”

“I don’t have a brother.”

“Good. That’s good. Right—right decision, Amos. Because the more people you love, the more people you care about, the worse it feels when it all gets ripped away. And it will, Amos. No matter what you do. No matter how hard you fight. No matter who you save.”

Amos propped the mop against the wall; his eyes crinkled with sympathy.

“Who’d you lose, Dean? You never talk about yourself when you come in here.”

“Sam, my brother. Cass, my—my best friend. Even this guy.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Jack. “Yeah, I lost him too, in a way. Once he became God.”

Amos threw Jack a look of concern, but Jack didn’t intervene. This was all playing out as Becky’s ending had said it would.

“Not to mention everyone else. Eileen, Jody, Donna, the girls. Everyone but me. Just like Chuck wanted.”

“Who’s Chuck?”

“Chuck’s God, Amos. _Was_ God. Haven’t you been listening?”

Jack clasped Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, we should go.”

“Yeah.” Amos backed away slowly. “Yeah, I think you might want to get him home.”

“Home?” Dean bellowed. “I don’t have a home. Sam was my home. Cass was my home. All I have now is my shitty motel room and the gun under my pillow. The one I touch when I go to bed, wondering whether tonight’s the night—”

Jack pulled Dean into a hug, quieting the rest of his speech with the skin of his neck. Amos retrieved Dean’s bottle with a look of glum resignation. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard one of his patrons say things along these lines, Jack assumed.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“It’s not okay,” Dean replied, though he didn’t move from Jack’s embrace. “It’ll never be okay.”

“You’re wrong.” Jack stepped back, patted Dean’s shoulders, and smiled. “Let’s go home.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Every word.”

“Then—” Dean searched Jack’s eyes. “No. No, this is a trick.”

Jack guided Dean to the saloon doors. “See for yourself, then.”

“Hey, wait!” Amos called. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Jack waved a finger at the bar; one-dollar notes began to rain from the ceiling. To the sound of Amos’s shocked laughter, he and Dean passed through the doors and into the light of day.

“Sweet Jesus! He really is God!”

* * *

“I don’t know if I can take any more of this,” Chuck said. “The thin plot you can see coming from a mile away, the cheesy soap opera dialogue, Dean _bawling_ in a cowboy bar? Even for you, Becky, this is pretty unbearable.”

Becky looked at him from the stove. She was taking advantage of the commercial break by refilling the popcorn bowl.

“Too bad.” Amara elbowed him from her end of the couch. “The whole point of this is to punish you.”

“And the fact that it’s the totally awesome hopeful ending that Sam and Dean and Cass and Jack deserve?” Becky plopped down again beside Chuck. “That’s two birds with one stone.”

“Please,” Chuck scoffed. “There’re enough boilerplate phrases in your writing; don’t make me listen to them when you talk, too. And did you have to write a kitchenette into my jail cell? It’s cramped enough in here as it is.”

Becky rolled her eyes and scooped up another handful of popcorn.

“Well, I happen to like what she wrote,” Amara said.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter. What would you know about being a creative? I mean, hello, that’s sort of the exact opposite of your entire…everything.”

“Shh,” Becky said. “It’s back.”

* * *

Dean looked around in panic. They were back in the garage of the bunker.

“No.” He clutched the Impala’s steering wheel. “Why are we here?”

Jack peered at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t be here,” Dean said. “Not—not without them.”

“Relax—”

“Take us back. Take us back to Montana, now.”

“Dean,” Jack said sternly. “Just calm down. Breathe. When you’re ready, we’ll walk through that door.”

Jack unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car. He made his way to the stairs that led down to the rest of the bunker and waited.

Dean didn’t know what to do. Two minutes before, he’d been sitting in the parking lot of the Continental Divide Cowboy Bar, daydrunk and maudlin, with God in his passenger seat. Now he was back at the place he’d been running from for weeks now. He wished that Jack would stop talking in vague circularities and just tell him what was going on.

“I guess being a mysterious douche is a prerequisite for godhood,” Dean grumbled, once he finally got out of the safety of the Impala. “Or a side effect.”

“You need to see things for yourself,” Jack said. “Your own eyes are all you have faith in. Well, other than my dad.”

“Don’t talk about Cass. Not after—” Dean balled his fist. “Not after what happened. You got him dead. Again.”

“I know.” Jack lowered his eyes. “Dean, I—”

“Let’s go.” Dean threw open the bunker door. “The sooner I do what you want, the sooner you’ll leave me in peace.”

They walked down the corridor; at first, he thought everything looked exactly as he’d left it. Then—

“Lights are on,” Dean observed. “Ventilation, too.”

“Hmm,” Jack said.

“I turned everything off when I left.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s—” he froze in place and grabbed Jack’s arm. “Hold up. I think I hear voices.”

They were standing in the hallway that led to the kitchen. His bedroom was only two doors away. He turned to look at Jack, who was beaming. After a few more seconds of listening to the voices, he realized why.

“Everything in the fridge is past its expiration date,” Sam was saying. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might eat one of Dean’s frozen dinners.”

“What a scandal,” came Eileen’s voice.

“I’m starving!”

Dean squeezed Jack’s arm hard. “What the hell is this?”

“What does it look like?”

“Heaven? Is this Heaven? Am I—did I actually pull the trigger the other night?”

“No, Dean.” Jack extricated his arm gently. “This is real.”

Dean hesitated for a few seconds. Then, he sprinted to the kitchen.

“Sam? Sammy?”

“Dean!” Sam dropped the frozen meal in his hands. It hit his toes, and he winced. “Ow. Um, hi.”

Without another word, Dean closed the distance and threw his arms around him. He felt warm, solid. Real. He was wearing fresh clothes, and his hair was still damp from the shower. Dean’s back heaved under Sam’s hands. He couldn’t hold in the tears; he didn’t want to.

Finally, Dean stepped back, wiped his face, and looked him up and down.

“Is this—I mean, are you—?”

“All I know is, I was trapped with Lucifer in the Empty—”

“The Empty?”

“Yeah, remember how Billie threatened a long time ago that she’d throw us in there when the time came? Well, Chuck actually did it. Probably why Jack couldn’t bring me back. He said he tried.”

“So, what happened? How are you here?”

“You’ll have to ask Jack that. Like I said, all I know is that I was trapped with Lucifer in the Empty one minute, and the next, I was alive again, standing in front of Jack and Amara. In my birthday suit.” Sam scratched his neck. “Still not sure how that happened.”

“Wait, Amara?”

“Look, Dean, I know we should do the whole holy water-silver-borax thing, but I’m famished.” He picked up the frozen dinner. “Maybe we could do it after I eat?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallowed. “Yeah, okay, Sammy.”

“It’s him,” Jack said, from behind Dean. “I’d be able to tell if it weren’t.”

Dean spun around. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. It’s just a thing we do. To be sure. No offense, kid, but I’m a little jaded when it comes to taking God’s word for things.”

Eileen waved from the table. “Hi, Dean.”

“Eileen. Hey, sorry. I got so caught up seeing Sam again—”

“It’s alright. I completely understand.”

“Looking good.” Dean winked. “I guess Hell didn’t take.”

“For the second time.”

“Hey, you fit right in here. We’re always dying and coming back. It’s sort of a family tradition.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. He turned to Jack, thinking now of the other most important person in his life.

“What about—what about Cass? Why isn’t he here? You got Sam out, why not Cass?”

“Dean!”

Dean whirled around to the voice in the doorway. Castiel stood there, holding a bottle of laundry detergent.

“Cass?”

“Dean. It’s so good to see you.”

“Me?” Dean walked towards him, his arms outstretched. “Come here.”

They met just inside the doorway, and the empty bottle of detergent clattered to the floor. Castiel held Dean upright as Dean melted into the embrace. Dean grasped at the back of Castiel’s trench coat, kissed his cheek, and sniffed into the soft hair behind his ear. Eventually, Castiel eased himself out of Dean’s arms and cupped Dean’s jaw with his hand.

“Dean, you look terrible.”

“Wow.” Dean dried his eyes. “Thanks, Cass.”

“Jack warned me that your appearance might be shocking. I’m glad I started doing the laundry when I got back here.”

“Who gives a crap about how I look, Cass? What happened to you?”

“I—I was gone. In the Empty, as I knew I would be sooner or later, given the bargain I’d made. And then, a couple hours ago, I suddenly wasn’t anymore. I was back on Earth, before Amara and Jack.”

Dean nodded. “Just like Sam. Were you naked?”

“Um…no.” Castiel tilted his head. “Was that a flirtation?”

“No! I mean—I was just curious.”

Sam chuckled from the kitchen table. “The first thing he says is, ‘were you naked?’”

“Stop teasing,” Eileen said.

Against the straining of his wounded pride, Dean joined them in laughter.

* * *

“Okay, stop.” Chuck snatched the remote from Becky’s armrest and paused the show.

“What are you doing? We’re almost at the end!”

“You can’t do this,” Chuck seethed. “Bringing everyone back to life because deities with absolute power said ‘so it shall be?’”

“Isn’t that what you did for the first three hundred books or so?” Amara pointed out.

“It was nowhere near as ham-fisted as this. And Sam and Eileen? Isn’t that a little obvious?”

“Let’s see. If it’s obvious, and if you wrote the first 327 books….” Becky raised her eyebrows. “You figure out the rest.”

“Of course, all of that pales in comparison to the way you’re having Dean fawn over Castiel. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he likes him, but you make it seem like he ‘likes likes’ him.”

Becky shot Amara a wry look. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

“Becky didn’t write in any of that,” Amara said. “Dean’s extemporizing.”

“I’m definitely adding it to the final draft now, though.”

Chuck held his head in his hands. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What I’m seeing.”

“Believe it, you hack.” Becky took back the remote and unpaused the show.

Onscreen, Dean, Castiel, and Jack joined Sam and Eileen at the table. With a wave of his hand, Jack lay out a modest feast of hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, and soft drinks. Sam set his TV dinner to the side, saying something that earned the laughter of the others. There was a toast to ‘however many lives we’re on now,’ then a toast to family, then a call from Jody that Dean put on speakerphone on which the torrent of good news flowed in both directions. At some point in the meal, Castiel rested his hand on Dean’s, and Dean didn’t move from it.

The screen faded to black. _The End_ , using the typeface of the _Supernatural_ covers, blazed before the final credits—the first of which was _Written by Becky Rosen_.

“And they all lived happily ever after.” Becky sighed contentedly. “Maybe a few one-off movies or comics, but nothing too serious.”

“Okay, you got your revenge,” Chuck groused. “You tormented me with your fluff fanfiction and undid all the drama that I’d been building up to for fifteen years. Will the two of you buzz off now?”

“Oh, that wasn’t all.”

“Come again?”

“ _Supernatural 328: The Series Finale!_ isn’t just a TV program shown exclusively in your celestial holding pen. It’s also the latest, and final, entry in the _Supernatural_ series of novels.” Becky thrust her phone under Chuck’s nose. “Look at how many preorders we have on Amazon already.”

“It—wait, what? It says the author is Carver Edlund.”

Becky shrugged. “I’m not the first woman to ghostwrite for a man. Under the circumstances, though, I’m happy for you to take the credit.”

“Yeah, I bet. Wait—published posthumously?”

“Well, you aren’t exactly going to be publishing anything from this dump. You should be proud, Chuck. Critics are raving. They’re calling this ending your swan song.”

Chuck sprang up. “You evil bi—”

With a flick of her eyes, Amara sealed Chuck’s lips shut.

“Mmm. Hmm!”

“Goodbye, Chuck. This is the last you’ll see of me.”

* * *

They were on Earth again, where it was early evening in the leafy suburb to which Becky and her family had moved three years before. Amara walked with Becky to her front porch.

“Are you satisfied?” Amara said.

“I am.” Becky hugged her. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I got to watch him squirm for a bit. You really know how to get under his skin.”

“Ah, well. The things you learn from dating a guy.” Becky searched her purse for her keys. “Are you going to unzip his mouth?”

“I haven’t decided.” Amara smiled at the sunset. “I think I might leave him that way for a while. It’s a definite improvement.”

They shared a laugh, and Becky’s hand jingled as she found her keyring.

“Well. It was really nice meeting you. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday. Farewell.”

She vanished in a cloud of black smoke, swirling up to the heavens. Becky watched until nothing remained. She sighed and turned her key in the lock.

“Honey? That you?”

“It’s me,” Becky responded. Her husband strolled into the hallway, holding a pot and a wooden spoon. He walked to the welcome mat and leaned in for a kiss.

“How was your spa day?”

“It was wonderful. Just what I needed.” She craned her neck to see into the pot. “You’re feeding them mac and cheese again, huh?”

“Hey, I made some salad to go with it.”

She kissed him a second time. “Go on, I’ll be right in.”

He disappeared back into the kitchen, from where she could already hear some muted quarreling between her children over something that no doubt seemed impossibly significant to them in that moment. She removed her shoes and lay them neatly on the shelf in the closet, then placed her purse on the hallway table. On the shelf above it, her figurines of Sam, Dean, and Castiel caught her eye, as they always did when she was coming and going. The last rays of the sun illuminated them in the shadows of the hallway.

She lingered for a moment, smiling faintly at their tiny forms, before moving on to join her family for dinner.


End file.
